Dean Whitbread 2020
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This is so middle-class it hurts. Where's punk? Where's funk? Where's the squealing, shouting and hollering that signifies the rock ‘n’ roll animal, shamanist whoops and ululations, our ordinary whispered responses and expressions? Where is Primal Scream?
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At last, an article which expresses the outrage carefully:
"Under John Major, it was cash for questions. Under Tony Blair, it was cash for coronets. Under Gordon Brown, we reach the suitably bathetic nadir of cash for cleaners. And cash for lavatories. And cash for carpets. And cash for saunas. And cash for swimming pools. And cash for gardeners. And cash for barbecues. And cash for dog food. And cash for cushions. Silk ones, naturally, 17 of them in all to ease the repose of Keith Vaz. In the case of a Conservative MP with a constituency in the shires, it is cash for horse manure. One MP wants cash for Kit Kats. A Scottish Labour MP confirms the stereotype of his race by claiming 5p for a carrier bag. Well, he probably needed somewhere to stuff all his receipts. A Lib Dem takes cash for cosmetics. One male MP claims cash for tampons."